“Andrew, is there any—­any message
from Mr. Mifflin? That wreck yesterday—­he
might have been on that train—­I’ve
been so frightened; do you think he was—­hurt?”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Andrew.
“If you want to know about Mifflin, he’s
in jail in Port Vigor.”

And then I think Andrew must have been surprised.
I began to laugh and cry simultaneously, and in my
agitation I set down the receiver.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

My first impulse was to hide myself in some obscure
corner where I could vent my feelings without fear
or favour. I composed my face as well as I could
before leaving the ’phone booth; then I sidled
across the lobby and slipped out of the side door.
I found my way into the stable, where good old Peg
was munching in her stall. The fine, homely smell
of horseflesh and long-worn harness leather went right
to my heart, and while Bock frisked at my knees I laid
my head on Peg’s neck and cried. I think
that fat old mare understood me. She was as tubby
and prosaic and middle-aged as I—­but she
loved the Professor.

Suddenly Andrew’s words echoed again in my mind.
I had barely heeded them before, in the great joy
of my relief, but now their significance came to me.
“In jail.” The Professor in jail!
That was the meaning of his strange disappearance
at Woodbridge. That little brute of a man Shirley
must have telephoned from Redfield, and when the Professor
came to the Woodbridge bank to cash that check they
had arrested him. That was why they had shoved
me into that mahogany sitting-room. Andrew must
be behind this. The besotted old fool! My
face burned with anger and humiliation.

I never knew before what it means to be really infuriated.
I could feel my brain tingle. The Professor in
jail! The gallant, chivalrous little man, penned
up with hoboes and sneak thieves suspected of being
a crook... as if I couldn’t take care of myself!
What did they think he was, anyway? A kidnapper?

Instantly I decided I would hurry back to Port Vigor
without delay. If Andrew had had the Professor
locked up, it could only be on the charge of defrauding
me. Certainly it couldn’t be for giving
him a bloody nose on the road from Shelby. And
if I appeared to deny the charge, surely they would
have to let Mr. Mifflin go.

I believe I must have been talking to myself in Peg’s
stall—­at any rate, just at this moment
the stableman appeared and looked very bewildered
when he saw me, with flushed face and in obvious excitement,
talking to the horse. I asked him when was the
next train to Port Vigor.

“Well, ma’am,” he said, “they
say that all the local trains is held up till the
wreck at Willdon’s cleared away. This being
Sunday, I don’t think you’ll get anything
from here until to-morrow morning.”